


The Subtle Grace of Being Good

by Ithilne



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst and Humor, F/M, Gen, Humor, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, Other, Philosophy, Sarcasm, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Emotional Tension, motivation theory, non-canonical plot development
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-03-29 11:14:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3894307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ithilne/pseuds/Ithilne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turgon, like Fingon, is weary at heart after the untimely demise of his father. Much has been lost. The golden days of Gondolin are tinged with melancholy. Yet amidst the loss there is hope still; travellers arrive in Gondolin to be reunited with their kin - and they bring with them strangers. How may these newcomers change the shape of things to come? What might folly, war and love yet yield in the forge of time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I present this work as a sort of 'Alternate History' version of events; a manner of quasi-AU, perhaps. I've taken many narrative liberties in order to tell this story. Character progression and outcomes may vary from canon as a result. There may be an element of personal wish-fulfilment in the fates of certain canon elves, here...but hey, this is all in the pursuit of fun, right? So please enjoy and let me know what you think!
> 
> Additional:  
> Included herein are non-canon emendations to the family tree of the Noldor to permit new, non-canon OCs. It is assumed that Irimë (one of two seldom remembered daughters of Indis and Finwë) was younger sister to Fingolfin, whose children and children's children dwelt both in Valinor and Beleriand.

The throne room was unusually hushed for the time of day (after lunch) - to say nothing of the occasion: the imminent return of his twin cousins.

Turgon Turukano Fingolfinion, King of Gondolin, had expected there to be a little more life in the place. It was odd to see his court so subdued, especially given the rapturous response he'd received when announcing the return of his long-absent kin some weeks previously.

Turgon shifted his weight, re-crossed his legs and considered the scene before him once again. Pale sunlight streamed in through high stained-glass windows, some of which had been thrown open from the vaulted galleries to let the cool sweet wind of spring rush through the chamber. Birdsong and the scent of plum blossom permeated the air. The carven marble veritably glowed. Altogether, it was a lovely day - a High Day - so why was everyone so quiet?

Glorfindel was standing nearby with Ecthelion and Duilin, speaking in low tones. All were arrayed in their House colours, of course, yet even they seemed to be taking things slow this morning. He beckoned Glorfindel to approach. The Scion of the House of the Golden Flower stepped up to the King's dais and bent his head in deference. He looked a little fuzzy around the edges.

"Glorfindel. I must say I'm overwhelmed by the general air of joviality this morning,"

He grinned sheepishly at the King’s deadpan approach to the matter and masterfully adopted his most innocent expression.

"My Lord?"

Turgon shot the golden Captain a wry look. Glorfindel cleared his throat and leaned forward until his mouth was level with the King's ear.

"'Tis not a lack of enthusiasm that lends the crowd their…delicacy this morning, sire. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"...Delicacy?"

"Yes, my Lord. So enthusiastic were they yester-eve, in anticipation of the ceremony, that I think they spent their excitement for the event a little...prematurely."

Turgon frowned, regarded the crowd, then turned back to Glorfindel. "They over-indulged, you mean?"

"Yes, sire."

"In all things?"

"Indeed, sire."

"...At the expense of the Lord of the Heavenly Arch, I assume?"

"Egalmoth was most generous with his cellars last night. Too generous, perhaps, my King."

"Of course. Well, why change the habit of several lifetimes?"

Behind Glorfindel, Ecthelion was attempting to stifle a laugh. Egalmoth was studying his boots, apparently caught between embarrassment and nausea. Turgon sighed and tried to suppress his own mild amusement, schooling his features into stern disapproval.

"'Tis clear to me now, Glorfindel, that the court is in fact in the process of drying out. Thank you. I am delighted to learn that at the very least they have not been stricken by food poisoning. And I thank you all, my Lords," he said in a louder voice, directing his words toward a melange of slightly queasy looking Captains, "For taking it upon yourselves to entertain the masses without any need of prompting."

Several elves shuffled their feet. Turgon lowered his tone and turned back to Laurefindë.

"Glorfindel."

"My King."

"My cousin. Conspicuously absent. Where is he?"

"Ah. Lord Voronwë was spotted fishing in the eastern terraces but two hours ago, sire. I imagine he wants to avoid any awkwardness..." 

Turgon moaned and rubbed his temples. He'd foolishly hoped that Voronwë - as father of the twins whose return was so universally and imminently anticipated - would forego the business of feeling wretchedly alienated from his children and just turn up smiling. Perhaps with gifts. But no. that was not Voronwë Aronwion's style. He would go hunting. Or sparring. Or...fishing...

Turgon pulled a face.

"Fishing, Glorfindel? Really?"

Glorfindel merely shrugged and quirked a smile of mild bafflement: _your guess is as good as mine_ , it said. And with a disarming flourish, the golden Lord rejoined the ranks of his peers.

Turgon arched an eyebrow and sank back into a watchful reverie.

This rift between Voronwë and his offspring had been a thorn in the side of familial relations for decades, and Valar knew they needed no more of _that_ sort of business. Family melodrama was a favourite pass-time of the Noldor - resulting in food-fights at best, and soul-sundering Oaths at worst. Or so the Sindar liked to say (derogotavely, of course).

Turgon reached for his teacup and gazed at the swirling contents disinterestedly. Voronwë would resolve this - he had to, now that the twins were finally to be reunited with him after so many seasons apart. Besides, a High Day such as this was cause for a much-needed collective lightness of spirit. And of late it had been rare indeed to see the nobility of Gondolin in such a state of...how did Laurefindë describe it? Ah, yes:  _delicacy_.

Turgon chuckled to himself a little wistfully. There had been so little to celebrate since the travesty that was Dagor Bragollach. He missed Fingon terribly, and the lump in his throat was testament to the brothers' shared grief over the loss of their father. Of Elenwë he dared not think overlong even now. He missed, too, his idiotic Feanorion half-cousins whom Aredhel had never ceased reminiscing over: all their youthful, Golden Days in Valinor when they would hunt and laugh and spar together in careless ease.

He was losing them all, he knew, one by one...season by season. Losing even those who were still by his side or residing yet in some secreted part of this wild and beauteous Eastern land - if not to violence then to the melancholy of an unforgotten past. Sorrow was as deadly an ailment to Elvenkind as war, Turgon knew, though it was more insidious, more subtle, and whetted keen by the steady march of their immortal years. Yet such was the life they had chosen when they followed their father into exile.

So. It was entirely understandable that there should be elation upon the return of their own; a homecoming in days of loss and uncertainty was indeed a joy to be celebrated. Yet still Turgon felt the pang of something else within him - something akin to..what? Regret? Envy? Since the founding of fair Gondolin (and if he was being honest, for many decades prior) Turgon had become subject to the increasing isolation of his station. It made him feel an elfling to admit it, but often he felt quite alone. Idril and Aredhel were the only kin he was able to truly speak with - and even then there were limitations of role and differences in temperament. With his daughter he must ever be a strong father. With his deceased sister, Turgon had waged an eternal battle of wills. Oh, he'd loved her dearly, but if there ever lived a more stubborn elf than Aredhel he had yet to meet her. he smiled to himself: Findarato oft said the very same of Artanis.

Ah, Finrod! Dearest Finrod. Turgon felt the absence of his closest cousin most keenly at times of great joy or great melancholy - for Ingoldo's intimate humour, steadfast mind and sparkling wit were a balm to the weary at heart. Finrod was his equal. His constant. He understood Turgon as Turgon understood him, even now after the years had sped past them like shoals of fish fleeing before the tide. He would have to write to Ingoldo again. Soon. If for no reason other than to impart his deepest inner ramblings...for none other could countenance them, after all.

But of course he now had another cause to write; for all at once he heard the distant, clear note of a heralding trumpet borne high upon the morning breeze.

The anticipated visitors had arrived.


	2. Chapter 2

The day was fair. Lofty clouds scudded across a bright sky and gusts of petal-bearing wind shimmered over the moat. Húrin checked his borrowed steed and nudged Húor in the ribs. The city gates were upon them at last. Húrin sighed apprehensively.

Húor (who had the enviable ability of being able to sleep on a moving animal) blinked and stretched. He'd been dozing noisily behind Húrin, arms clasped about his brother's waist, forehead resting upon his shoulder.

"Come, you sluggard," Húrin said affectionately, "We're finally here!"

Things had actually turned out unexpectedly well given their shaky start to the day (anything involving goblins is never pleasant)...But this now? This was an unknown quantity. The brothers exchanged wary glances. Much had transpired since dawn and they weren't willing to wager that the day had nothing further to fling at them: After one has been chased by orcs, rescued by a Vala and then whisked through leagues of air by giant eagles - all before breakfast, no less -  _nothing_  feels impossible.

The gates of Gondolin loomed before them like the folded wings of some magnificent roosting bird, pale and luminescent. The walls were wrought of marble inlaid with mithril and gold - and manned, Húrin could now see, by several sharp-sighted elves clad in shining armour. A clear voice called halt to the progression of the four travellers, who were seated in a peculiar arrangement of two to a horse. 

They waited upon the threshold for several moments as the wardens conferred amongst themselves. Somewhere above a skylark burst into song.

Finally, one of the gate-wardens addressed them in what Húrin recognised to be Quenya - a tongue seldom heard and of which he understood little. Yet Sindarin also he discerned, and of this language he was more knowledgable.

"Amatúlie, Voronyeldë*, we welcome you with joy! Long has our Lord Turgon anticipated a homecoming. I am Saelion, first lieutenant to Captain Ecthelion. But we were expecting only two. Here are four. Who are these men that travel with you, brennil nin**?" 

Húrin glanced at the elves who had witnessed their rather flamboyant entrance that morning. To their credit, the only indication of shock they exhibited at seeing men swoop from the sky in the clutches of two giant eagles had been a raise of their shapely eyebrows. Several minutes and several drafts of miruvor later,  Húrin learned that the elves’ road lay with theirs. 

They made for Gondolin together. 

Húrin had quickly surmised that their new companions were kin of some kind, for they seemed very close.  In appearance, though, they were strikingly dissimilar. One was flaxen-haired and unmistakably feminine (for she was soft-featured and becomingly enveloped in a robe the colour of autumn wheat) whilst the other was taller, dark of hair, pale of skin and more slender - yet powerfully athletic and clad in a flowing warrior's tunic. Both were surpassingly fair - as was the wont of elves - but for the life of him Húrin could not confidently claim to tell whether the dark elf was elleth or ellon.  Húrin’s own limited experience of elves had taught him that to human eyes their beauty was often quite androgynous (indeed, he cringed to recall how he’d learned the hard way the folly of assuming that every smooth-faced elven beauty was a female!) 

But the moment the dark elf fixed him with a golden gaze and spoke in a melodious, lilting rendition of Westron, he knew she was a maid.   Her name was Ilmárien. Her sister's, Lalwen. They were merely journeying to see their kin, they said, though at the mention of 'kin' Húrin thought he saw a flicker of anxiety pass over Ilmárien’s fair face.

It was she who now dismounted smoothly and greeted the warden with hand over heart:

"Hanatanyel órenyallo***, we are glad to be back. These men we met at the foot of the mountain pass. They were rescued from orcs by the mighty Thorondor in the Vale of Sirion. I am certain that my Lord Turgon would be gratified to hear their tale first-hand. I will vouch for them, so I pray you let them pass within." 

At this news the gate-warden's eyes widened. It was becoming clear to Húrin that the gate-wardens held the sisters in higher esteem than they themselves had implied. Húor mumbled as much in his ear.

"Aye, brannon nin,” replied Saelion, “If you both vouch for these men 'tis not my place to interfere. They shall pass."

Lalwen nodded in confirmation and smiled, "We do, Saelion sadron****, and gladly." 

And so it was done.

The mighty gates slid soundlessly open and they passed over the boundary into Gondolin. Húrin winced and shielded his eyes against a shaft of sudden sunlight. Behind him he heard his brother gasp - and as he turned his gaze upon this elvish mountain realm, his own breath caught in his throat.

They were upon the lip of a broad valley. Below them, gleaming bright and jewel-like, dwelt the very heart of the city. A smooth, wide path descended the gradient in a line that disappeared beyond the limits of his sight. Of these there were seven, like the spokes of a great white wheel, about which the rest of the city had been raised in luminous spires and domes. Other paths both small and large divided the city through sculpted archways and courtyards edged by gardens.

An abundance of verdure blossomed upon the walls and roofs - which was remarkable given the altitude of the hidden valley. All beyond the circling walls of the city was spartan - the rocky land yielding little more than scrubby grass and thistle - yet here the greenery hung from almost every building in lush abandon, the twining tendrils of rose and jasmine and wisteria enclosing the very structures that supported them.  

Every way Húrin turned he heard the murmur of playing water - for fountains were the delight of Gondolin. Like silver sentinels they dwelt on every street juncture, carved of alabaster in graceful renditions of the natural things that all elves hold dear. The canals that fed them flowed briskly to the centre of the valley and spilled into tiers of broad, translucent pools flanked by rows of mallorn.  The palace - tall and many-spired - stood at the centre of all, it’s uppermost towers breaching the spring-tide clouds.

And as the brothers gazed in wonder at all they passed on the road to the citadel, Húrin could not find it within himself to regret the misfortunes that had led them to a place so fair.

They must have travelled for a quarter-hour at least before they reached the centre of the valley, but to the brothers everything passed as if in a dream. They did not mark the attentions of the elf-folk who lined the road, welcoming their kin home and wondering at the sight of men in their realm; neither did they mark how the great palace grew to fill the very sky as they approached its tree-lined entrance.

"Take the horses - we will hasten to the King."

He was following the sisters mutely, shadowing their silent footfalls. His heels clicked upon the marble floor in a steady rhythm, his mind saturated and dreaming. Over a shimmering bridge they walked and on into a vaulted courtyard open to the heavens. A burnished fountain sang at its centre beneath a play of golden sunlight. 

They passed it and moved on. 

Then, poised beneath a high canopy of coloured glass, he heard the soft and laughing voice of Ilmárien in his ear, coaxing him from his reverie.

"Come, Húrin; this is not the time for a waking-sleep. The King awaits us within. Do not let the silver voices of the fountains lull your mind too soundly!"

And, as if surfacing from deep water, he came back to himself. And he felt refreshed. Húor was grinning at him, speaking sentiments he had felt a hundred times already that day:  _"Brother - this is a place of wonders! I am glad indeed for our poor fortunes this morn!"_

They stood shoulder to shoulder and breathed the fragrant air. The doors parted, the guardsmen bowed, and together they watched their elvish guides stride tall into the Halls of Turgon the Wise.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *'daughter of Voronwë'  
> **honorific; Sindarin; ‘My Ladies’  
> ***Quenya; ‘thanks from the heart’  
> ****Sindarin; ‘loyal’  
> Voronwë's family---  
> Nerwinië: the non-canon, half Vanyarin, half Telerin wife of Voronwë (derived from old Noldorin for ‘January’, ’Nerwinien’) She was a kinswoman of Cirdan; Quenya  
> Irimë: resides in Hithlum. The youngest daughter of Finwë and Indis, sister to Fingolfin and thus aunt to Turgon. In this story, I make Voronwë the son of a union between Aranwë and Irimë, and so he is Turgon's cousin. Voronwë's twin daughters Ilmárien and Lalwen are therefore the 2nd cousins of Idril and Maeglin.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Copious apologies to any who might still be reading this thing (I don't expect there is anybody, but it's ok I don't mind apologising to the void juuuuust in case some people out there are extraordinarily patient). A little more back-story included this time. I tried to remain more or less true to canonical history, but please forgive any slip-ups.
> 
> Thank you for waiting! I was rather caught up with life-related things in the last couple of months.
> 
> More explanation of the family rift between Almárien and Voronwë will follow in the next chapter...and the emphasis will also begin to shift a little more in favour of canonical characters. Lalwen and Almárien are essentially my foils for exploring different dramatic outcomes - though I do have some interesting plans for them in the works :)

Ilmárien bade the brothers wait outside the Hall. It was prudent that the separate affairs of their family reunion and the arrival of men in Gondolin be dealt with in stages. Yes, stages should work nicely. She huffed a breath and closed her eyes.

It was a boon that things had gone so smoothly for them at the gates that morning, and she knew the privilege was due to their kinship with the King.  Húrin and Húor were noble men. They needed to see Turgon. Their connection with the Valar and something more…ineffable…about their short, human fates compelled Ilmárien to act swiftly.. She had to be decisive. Second-guessing her instincts now was merely a function of self-doubt, she knew. Time to move forward.

Lalwen squeezed her hand.

“Ilmárien - it is time.” 

She met her sister’s steady blue gaze. The blonde elleth exuded a calm confidence - she always had. It was of little wonder that Fingolfin had promoted her so rapidly through the ranks of his councillors at Hithlum. She was an asset; level-headed, wise and rational. Had Lalwen not approved of Húrin and Húor, Ilmárien would not have trusted them as she did; had Lalwen not vouched for the men at the Warden Gates, none of them would have entered the city that morning.

Ilmárien marshalled her wits and briskly followed her sister through the gleaming throne room. The palace was thronged with elves, windows were thrown wide and pillars decked with white flowers.

All of Turgon’s court seemed to have turned out to welcome the sisters to Gondolin.  

She had never really known Turgon all that well - most probably due to his closeness to her father at a time when she herself was not in Voronwë’s good graces. When had she _ever_ been in his good graces, though? Much bad blood still festered between them. And whilst Ilmárien had been off ‘throwing her lot in’ with the volatile sons of Feanor, Lalwen had remained at Hithlum by the side their Grandmother Irimë - playing the part of the loyal and steadfast granddaughter who mourned the demise of their late mother stoically, bereft of the comfort of her much-loved twin.

Irimë, as Turgon’s aunt, happened to be one of a blesséd few who had dispensation to journey at will to and from Gondolin. This was after Aredhel’s departure, of course, which set a precedent for such comings and goings (let it never be said that Turgon the Wise was not a little flexible…at least when it came to placating his indomitable aunt). This priviege was then extended to Lalwen.

Thus did Lalwen come to be known and loved in Gondolin, whilst her twin had instead earned fame as well as infamy for her dealings with the Feanorians.

But the world was changing; shadows stalked travellers in the night and wayward cohorts of orcs - more frequent, and more fell - terrorised the lands beyond the borders of their elvish sanctuaries. When Voronwë suggested that Lalwen remove to Gondolin to serve Turgon after the death of Fingolfin, Irimë had flatly refused him: _“One twin lost to the wilds of the world is enough, my son! Lalwen will stay with me.”_ \- and that was an end to the matter. 

Or so Irimë had thought.

Lalwen remained at Hithlum a while, indeed, serving High King Fingon in all the capacities that a talented elf could in a time of familial sundering.  Then, Voronwë suggested to his mother a plan that might bring Ilmárien back into the fold - _and_ allow him to claim Lalwen as a much-needed advisor for Gondolin. Ilmárien could act as an escort to her sister on the perilous journey between Hithlum and Gondolin: she was a skilled warrior, was she not? And surely she wished to see her twin after so many years? Irimë could not pass up an opportunity to finally take back her granddaughter from Feanor’s brood. She consented.

So, in the delicate aftermath of a soul-wrenching war, it seemed the time had come at last for Voronwë and Ilmárien to reconcile their differences. 

When last Ilmárien had been sighted she was fighting back to back with Voronwë’s half-cousins Celegorm and Curufin - engaged in a desperate battle to retain the Pass of Aglon. But when the enemy prevailed and the Pass was breached, they fled for Nargothrond and the protection of Finrod Felagund.  The Feanorian cohort had been bled and scattered by their bitter trials at the Dagor Bragollach, and with little choice left them, they gladly accepted hospitality of their Beloved cousin…  

Ilmárien shook herself from her memories and flashed a deceptively confident smile at her sister. 

They advanced upon the throne, Lalwen grinning like a child at the Gates of Summer. She loved it here. Ilmárien, however, was apprehensive; what would these Gondolindrim think of her? Was she an outcast to their minds, thanks to an impetuous and impulsive youth spent traveling with her half-cousins? Heart in mouth, she scoured the depths of the jostling crowd for her father, but found him not.

Ilmárien knelt before King Turgon, head bowed, hand upon her heart.  Now was the time to open proceedings by expressing sentiments of fealty. As the elder by several minutes, this duty fell to Ilmarien. She was expected to exhibit a certain degree of personal grace and articulacy. There was often much attention spared to the manner in which a young noble chose to intone their loyalty to the King - and expectations at Turgon’s Court were seldom low.

The King sat with his bright daughter and his dark nephew upon the mighty dais, waiting for Ilmárien to initiate the ceremony. Both father and daughter were clad in white, and upon the head of Turgon there shone a coronet of glittering garnets, wreathed with mithril leaves.

Ilmárien drew a steadying breath from the still air of the chamber:

“Turgon Turukano Fingolfinion. Long has it been since last we met; and long too the litany of feats our kin have wrought both in peace and terrible war.  Our hearts are glad to once again be near thine, perchance to serve and thrive and wax in wisdom. We greet thee now as kin ought ever to greet kin, as subjects ought ever to greet their Lord; In trust, loyalty, faith and love. The High King of the Noldor, thy brother, Lord Fingon, beseeched us reside a time with thee in thy white halls. And so, with a full heart we give ourselves freely into thy service, for as long as thou deem us fit to serve; for the benefit of all good folk of the fair City of Gondolin.”

The echo of her words died away.  Applause broke out, rapturous and loud. Lalwen gave her sister an appreciative nod.

The King rose upon the completion of Ilmarien’s speech and stepped forth to clasp her lightly by the shoulders. He kissed each cheek, her brow and then her lips in a traditional gesture of kinship. 

“Well spoken and well met, Ilmárien Voronwion. You’ll have the court discussing _that_ introduction for quite some time, I daresay! ’Tis good to see you’ve grown as greatly in eloquence as you have in grace. Now, this is your second time in Gondolin is it not? I hope you still find it fair?”  

“Aye, my Lord, exceedingly fair. The city touches the memory of Valimar within me…I am eager to know it and its inhabitants better.”

Turgon smiled generously, his handsome face so like Fingolfin’s in that moment that it made her breath catch. “And so you shall, ‘coz. Of your time here we can speak at greater length over dinner: There’s to be a banquet, of course, to honour your return.  He drew her slightly to one side, “My aide informs me that we have men-folk within our walls. I will receive them in my study shortly. They have been shown to accommodation and I will send for you and your sister before the feast commences so you can introduce them to me. They are a little overwhelmed, I suspect, but you did well to bring them if they are truly whom they claim to be.”

“Your Atar, now," Turgon spoke now very carefully, eyes soft with understanding, "He hopes to meet with you privately, I think. You will likely not see him before tomorrow. Do not let the gulf between you burden your mind over-much, Ilmárien: your father is ripe for reconciliation. Of that I have no doubt. And I will do all in my power to smooth the way. Elbereth knows I have some knowledge of mending such rifts. Ah, dear Lalwen!”

He turned now to the younger twin and repeated the ritual embrace.  “How fare you? Glad indeed are we to have you back amongst us. We have missed your bright laughter and unparalleled diplomacy!”

She beamed. “It’s wonderful to return, my King.”

“I trust your sister brought you from Hithlum by the safest roads? I remember her penchant for shortcuts from our days hunting rabbits near Mithlond…”

Lalwen laughed gaily at the King’s reference to a fond childhood memory. Turgon gestured for his daughter and nephew to step forward.

“Here, Ilmárien, are your cousins Idril and Maeglin. I hope you will have time enough to become fast fiends now you are finished… journeying. I know all too well that Idril has awaited Lalwen’s return eagerly.”

Almárien greeted her cousins, but did not miss the King’s succinct avoidance of the subject of her tumultuous past. Idril and Lalwen embraced, chattering already about myriad things both urgent and inconsequential. It was clear that the two shared a strong bond of friendship, and it gladdened Ilmárien to see her sister so happy. She deserved to be happy.

Maeglin was nudged by the King and introduced himself a little hesitantly. Whether his reluctance was borne of timidity or haughtiness, though,  Ilmárien could not quite discern.

“We have never met before,” he said as a matter-of-fact, “I was not here when last you came to Gondolin, cousin Ilmárien. I know your sister, though. You look nothing alike…for which I am glad: Three yellow-haired female cousins would be a little too homogenous for my liking.”

Ilmárien waited for an accompanying smile from Maeglin - something that would indicate that the comment was a jest - but none came. She smiled at the oddness of it and shook her head.  “Well, cousin Maeglin, it would hardly make things that ‘homogenous’, would it? Otherwise how in the world would the Vanyar tell each other apart? Or even the Noldor for that matter, seeing as so many of us are dark of hair?”

Maeglin seemed to concede the logic of her remark. “Indeed. But you cannot deny that Idril and Lalwen are strikingly similar in both height and beauty. If you were identical to Lalwen then I stand by the claim that I’d have some genuine difficulty telling you all apart - at least from a distance.”

Maeglin, she realised, was either outstanding at deadpan comedy or else lacked some vital skill in navigating a normal social interaction. She grinned.  “Well then I am glad my differences benefit someone, cousin. I daresay most elves here are a little circumspect of my past. Let us simply hope no one mistakes you for me, then, shall we?”

“Oh that would not happen. My eyes are deep violet, as you can see. I am quite unique.”

“Indeed-“

“-And I know what it is to own a different past to the one most would have you possess. It makes you unique, also, cousin.”

Maeglin then paused, cocked his head and adopted a tone that made Ilmárien suppose he was thinking out loud.  “You are different to your twin in more than appearance," he observed, "There is a depth to your loss that marks you; a shadow or some secret that clings to your thoughts... _and marks you_." 

Ilmárien felt a sudden rush of anxiety down her spine, as if she'd dived beneath a frigid cataract. She dared a glance into his eyes, But Maeglin was studying the middle distance with a wistful expression written on his beautiful face.  "My mother," he said softly,  "She very much loved her Feanorian cousins, you know. And she was a remarkable woman. Perhaps you are, too." 

There was an undoubted spark of Finwean intelligence in Maeglin’s turn of phrase and choice of topic - an intelligence that was as much an emotional instinct as it was a deductive strength. Ilmárien wondered how much of it he was actually aware of, and how much was flow-of-consciousness. He observed everything, that much was obvious. Noted everything. She would not underestimate this awkward Lord, however odd he seemed. 

As they were talking the King had ushered forth several Lords from the rows of elves that flanked the throne.  Tall and proud they seemed, but thankfully also good-natured and good-humoured for the most part. Ilmárien had already heard much of the twelve great Houses of Gondolin - their martial prowess was renowned, and their valour on the field at Dagor Bragollach an inspiration. 

“Cousin, let me introduce Lord Glorfindel of the Golden Flower; Ecthelion of the Fountain, and Egalmoth of the Heavenly Arch. I leave it to them to introduce the rest…wherever they are. There are so many of them.”

Ilmárien bowed.

“Well met, my Lords. I had not the pleasure in my last, fleeting visit to your fair realm.”

It was Ecthelion who spoke first, bowing low:

“You are gracious, my Lady. It is a joy to finally greet you here in the Halls of your cousin the King.”

“Please, Lord Ecthelion - my name is Ilmárien. I would have you and all others call me by it. I blush to see such great warriors as yourselves defer to me. We are at the very least all equals here, are we not?”

Glorfindel laughed warmly, clearly appreciative of the gesture.

“If it please you...Ilmárien," he said, laughing still. His voice was melodious and Ilmárien quickly found herself admiring his manner a little too avidly... Glorfindel then leaned in conspiratorially, "Though we expect you to extend us the same treatment, agreed? We're all fans of humility here. Save Egalmoth, of course."

"I'll thank you, Glorfindel, to not sully my reputation before I've had a chance to establish it!"

Egalmoth -who was arrayed in a marvellous, multi-hued robe - smiled indulgently and stepped between Ecthelion and Glorfindel.  "We hear much of your own deeds in the world. You have the poise of a seasoned warrior…you are quite different to your twin, I see. She does not care overmuch for sparring. If you will, we would be delighted to have you train with us..?”

Ilmarien nodded eagerly.  "Thank you, my Lords! I have a great desire to learn new techniques from the fine warriors of Gondolin. I saw some of you, I think, fighting on the field that sad day at Dagor Bragollach…

She hesitated, a shadow passing over her face. “My apologies. This is not a suitable subject for a joyous occasion.”

Ecthelion smiled sadly, eyes briefly connecting with Glorfindel's before resting upon her own.  “It was indeed a battle of great evil," he said, "Yet from it there was much of value to be learned - not least that the spirit of our people is strong: stronger, I believe, for all our suffering. And through this strength we prevail against the darkness! And though we mourn still the losses incurred by the countless misdeeds that stain our life in this age of strife - we have also much to celebrate in our victories.”

Ilmárien smiled gratefully. Ecthelion’s eyes were kind and resuuring - and as deeply hued as a mountain pool of incandescent water.

“Well said, my Lord, and I thank you. You are wise. The pain is something we all share, is it not? My sister, too, suffers, though she is no warrior. A pain of repeated detachment and loss,” She lightened her tone, “My sister and I are quite different, indeed - as I hear with reassuring regularity! We are alike in neither temperament nor in appearance. A complementary pair as opposed to a similar pair, perhaps? Lalwen is the fairer and the sweeter, my Lords, and it is only right that I should support her as a protective sister ought.”

Egalmoth suddenly shook his head and it glittered, for his chestnut hair was intricately braided with emeralds, and his eyes shone like forest leaves in sunlight.  “Eloquent, my Lady, as I am sure you are aware. But I fear I cannot agree with all your sentiments: Lalwen is the fairer and the sweeter, say you? Fairness is seldom a universally agreed quality - and so I say that you both are exceedingly fair. One bright and one dark - just like our handsome Ecthelion and Glorfindel here! Who of these two is the fairer, do you think? Why, neither! Any with eyes to see can make the judgement easily: for they are equally beautiful, and in their contrasting counterpoint, fairer still!  And sweetness?” 

He paced slowly about the group, grandiose and expressive, and caught up Ilmárien’s had in his own for emphasis.  “That is something I do not even know _how_ to quantify. But if it is the ability to charm and warm the blood of those who know you, then, Lady, I declare you have as much sweetness as one elf should ever be allowed to bear. Any more and you’d end up like me: cloying and clumsy.”

The self-abasement at the end of his speech was a stroke of genius. She wasn’t sure how to respond and merely gaped a little at the superfluous nature of Egalmoth’s compliment. She pulled her hand from its embrace a little warily. 

Ecthelion groaned. Glorfindel blushed ferociously and rounded on Egalmoth, eyes flashing.  “Egalmoth! Ever the insufferable cad! Pay him no heed, Ilmárien. Though what he says of your virtues is undoubtedly true, he should know better than to say such things in such a way - and in such a place!”

Egalmoth rolled his green eyes and receded with a grin. Ecthelion bowed uncomfortably and followed, catching Egalmoth firmly by the arm and marching him out of the hall.  Glorfindel then offered to escort her to her chambers to refresh herself, and she gladly accepted his offer after noting that the crowd was dispersing and her sister was nowhere to be seen.

—-

Ecthelion rounded the corner, guiding an uncooperative Egalmoth rather roughly by his arm.

“I knew you couldn’t contain yourself, ‘Amo. Was all that really necessary?!”

Egalmoth shook his arm free and turned to Ecthelion with a smirk.

“Oh, relax, will you?  It’s not about necessity - it’s about fun. She’s been running with the Feanorian pack for so long…I’m certain she’s used to some playfulness by now. Ugh, look at you. You’re so uppity. She’ll find courtly life a dull affair, I fear, were it not for me.”

“Must you always wade in so flamboyantly? And why do you always drag Fin and ME into your little performances?!”

“Because you both look so ravishing when you blush.”

Egalmoth.

Lord of the House of the Heavenly Arch. 

Third Captain of the Gondolin Guard. 

The most incorrigible flirt to ever walk the fair green fields of Arda.

Ecthelion's attitude took on an air of futility.

“You’re a liability,” he said, “But please, for my sanity’s sake, can you reign it in a little? Just for tonight? We have a facade of respectability to maintain! Can’t you just play by the rules for once?”

“I play by my own rules, Thel.”

“Stop trying so hard. You sound like an idiot.”

“…Too much?”

“Too much. Always too much.”

“I don't believe you. See you at the feast!” 

And he was off down the corridor with a parting wave, pausing only to call: _“Wear the silver tunic, Thel. Your torso looks extraordinary in the silver tunic!”-_ loud enough, of course, so that several passing elves had to stifle their snorts in their sleeves. 

Ecthelion watched Egalmoth’s retreating form with a bemused expression on his face. 

This was going to be a very long night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Lalwen is named after her Grandmother Irimë, whose mother-name was Lalwen.  
> *Genealogy of cousins - a quick explanation: As tempting as it is to have Lalwen and Almárien refer to Turgon as 'Uncle', this simply is not the case: Turgon is in fact Cousin to their father, which makes him their First Cousin Once Removed. Idril and Maeglin are to Lalwen and Ilmárien Second Cousins. Hence all the Cousin-calling in this story! (Also, Fingolfin was their Great-Uncle, and Feanor their half-Great-Uncle.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There is beauty in such brevity! Your fates are shrouded in mystery and your life burns bright with the passion of urgency and trial; we who linger in the starlight of our dreams are prone to melancholy. Prone to terrible remorse."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a character-focussed, slow build and slow burn story with several POV weaving throughout :)

“Three bouts?

“Hmm? Oh, sorry, yes. We’ll not have time for five.”

Ecthelion dropped into a stretch and glanced at his sparring partner. 

“I hope you’re feeling more enthusiastic than you sound today, 'Fin. You seem distracted. This does not bode well for you if you wish to even our scores this afternoon.”

No response came. Ecthelion paused mid-stretch to appraise Glorfindel’s oddly absent mood, but his friend was being particularly opaque today; deep grey eyes clouded by some preoccupation. 

“‘Glorfindel?” he prompted gently.

Grey eyes snapped to his. “I am sorry, Thel. It’s just so odd to see Lalwen’s sister again after such a long absence. Do you realise that when last I met her she was barely past her majority? Can it really have been more than four centuries? _Yéni únótimë ve rámar aldaron_ …!*” 

He sighed a little wistfully as he bound his flaxen hair with a strip of crimson leather. 

“Still coming to terms with your immortality, Fin?” Ecthelion teased, “Be heartened. Today went well - despite Egalmoth’s ill-judged contribution - and I am certain Ilmárien will find her place here swiftly. She is both resourceful and charismatic; qualities one does well to have in Gondolin.”  The faintest of frowns creased Ecthelion’s white forehead, “Yet this is not what truly troubles you, is it? There is aught else on your mind, my friend. Tell me.”

Glorfindel shrugged off his tunic and took up two slender practice swords, testing their weight adroitly.

“I worry for the King, Thel. His friends and kin are so few; he does not have many in whom he may confide, and with Lalwen’s return I anticipate that even Idril will be less available to him. I _would_ wish that he find some solace or a confidant amongst us, his captains, but in truth none of us are his equal and thus cannot treat with him _as_ an equal. He grows ever more isolated. And I fear- I fear that his judgement of certain members of his family may be impaired by an overwhelming need to think well of them; a need borne of this inescapable isolation he endures.”

Ecthelion listened, watching Glorfindel cycle fluidly through series of defensive poses as he spoke. 

“You do not trust Maeglin.”

It was not a question. 

Glorfindel halted mid-swing and turned his bright, intense gaze upon his friend.

“No. No, I do not.”

“It is irrational: he’s done nothing to arouse such distrust-”

“I know.” 

Glorfindel swung his weapons idly. He was clearly troubled by his unreasonable suspicions. Such apparently unfounded circumspection was wholly uncharacteristic of Glorfindel, whose open countenance and generous heart were as much a part of him as his golden hair.  

Ecthelion sighed sympathetically. ”Do not brow-beat yourself over this, Fin. Your solicitude for Turgon does you credit. And if it makes you feel any better…I do not trust Maeglin either, yet cannot tell you _why_ I do not. Not now. Maybe not ever. But there it is: Turgon mourns both his father and his sister dreadfully. And he misses his brother. He will think well of Maeglin regardless of the warning in his or my heart… as a balm to ease his bereavement. Embracing Maeglin as a way of honouring sibling’s memory means he must embrace all his oddities. And Maeglin _is_ odd. Fey, even - like Aredhel, but more so. Why, only last week I saw him erupt at a clerk over a pot of spilled ink! Poor Erestor..." he murmured, "But perhaps we do him an injustice; perhaps he will grow out of it. The boy didn’t exactly have the best start in life…”

Glorfindel drew a hand over his face and sighed, “You are right, of course. I know it is the nature of leadership to be alone, but some respite from it must be possible! And the family - I do not think it healthy for the House of Fingolfin to be so riven.” 

“He has Voronwë.“

“Voronwë! Voronwë has not been the same since Hithlum. Not since that debacle with his wife and then Ilmárien. He broods alone; shuns company and keeps to his tasks with a black cloud about his shoulders. He is much changed, Thel. Ah, but you are right!" Glorfindel scuffed his boot against the ground agitatedly. "Turgon needs him. Now more than ever. Though Voronwë was always more of a follower than a peer to our King...”

Ecthelion stepped up to Glorfindel and offered a different sword, tightening his friend's left bracer with steady fingers. “Such sundering betwixt kin yields only unhappiness and unrest - Say what you will of the Feanorians, at least they stick together!”

“Oh, yes,” intoned Glorfindel sardonically, “They have an Oath to help with that, though, don’t they? Last I heard they were divided again: Celegorm and Curufin reside now in Nargothrond with Ingoldo.”

Ecthelion smiled, “Finrod. He is the cousin Turgon needs now. Ah, If only the threads of our fate had contrived to weave Finrod’s life a little closer to Gondolin..”

“Or Turgon’s a little closer to Nargothrond-“

“…we may not then be having this conversation.” 

Their eyes met with an unspoken understanding; a shared recognition. Ecthelion swallowed, dropped his eyes and clapped Glorfindel robustly on the shoulder. 

“Come,” he said, clearing his throat. “Afternoon wanes to Evening. Let us spar. Are you ready to lose to me again, Lord Lauréfindë?”

\---

“I am gladdened to see you both well rested, Galdorion.”

Turgon lifted a fluted cantor of wine and carefully refilled their glasses.  Bathed and refreshed, the brothers seemed more fragile, more vulnerable somehow. And so young! By any measure of elves or men, so very young. Húrin, the eldest, accepted his wine graciously, but Húor looked uncomfortable and fidgeted nervously with the hem of his borrowed robe. 

Turgon smiled and paced to the tall window behind the visitors, his eyes roving the dusk-steeped skyline of his realm. He turned and looked upon the brothers. 

“I welcome you to Gondolin, sons of Galdor, and offer you sanctuary within these walls. Tell me: do your people dwell still beneath the fair boughs of Brethil? A short span of years have passed since your Grandsire, Hador elf-friend, stood with us against the darkness. I hope your kin fare well?”

Hurin shifted in his seat before answering, “Well enough, Sire, though It has of late been…a trying time for all. Orcs are many in number and the darkness never truly left our lands. We find ourselves beset by many challenges,”

Turgon rounded his desk, glass in hand, and sat. He saw Húor attempt to sit a little straighter and not flinch at the cross-examination he doubtlessly expected. Húrin was a little more opaque. Already he had the noble bearing of his line; the groomed stubble on the lad’s face a brave yet patchy attempt at a beard...one like his father and father’s father bore, no doubt. Both his elders were now gone. Turgon’s heart clenched at the reminder of the astonishing fragility of mankind. The lads were growing fast, though; fair-haired, handsome and tall. But their looks betrayed their obvious inexperience; both were gangly still, though honing their powers well by the looks of things. A few years more and they would grow fully into their bones-

“Sire,” Húrin it was who spoke again, interrupting Turgon's musing. The lad exchanged a swift glance with his younger brother,

“Before anything more is said, I must apologise for our presence here. We know well that Gondolin is a hidden city and closed to the world. I swear we did not plan this arrival!”

Turgon waved off the lad’s concern with a smile, but his gaze did not falter.  “It would seem,” he said softly, “That the Powers of this world have contrived to lend us your presence awhile, Galdorion. Your tale is an unusual one, I grant you, yet I have cause beyond mere happenstance and old friendships to welcome children the Edain into Gondolin,”

“Indeed, Lord?” Húrin asked, “You were expecting visitors?”

“Not in the usual sense, but...yes.”

“We were fortunate indeed to have survived the day, Sire. Luck alone sees us alive this eve!”

Turgon smiled enigmatically, “Luck. Hmm. Perhaps,” he said, “Though I am more inclined to think your coming is in fact…timely.”

He leaned back into his chair thoughtfully. Outside, the dusk had deepened; stars pricked the cloudless sky and lanterns blinked into life all about the shade-shrouded city. Turgon sipped his wine and surveyed the brothers over the rim of his glass with an air of concentrated curiosity. Húor shifted in his seat, not knowing where to look, and eventually plucked a grape from the spread of light foods on the table before him.

Turgon drew a breath.

“Glad I am that your lives were spared at Sirion. Long, too, must your road have been. I trust my kin led you well?”

Húrin inclined his head respectfully, “My Lord, we could not have chanced upon better guides - or kinder ones. And to live to see such a fair city!  My brother and I are in your debt. And honoured; the paths of men and elves seldom cross these days - at least from the point of view of men. The span of our life has little meaning to elves, I think-”

Turgon chuckled and placed his goblet delicately upon his desk.

“It is an oddity, indeed, though not without meaning, Lórindol*" he said,  "Never meaningless. The Edain are a noble folk. And though the passage of your life is a fleeting thing to us - and to compare man and elf one might as well compare the span of a season to the turning of an Age -  there is beauty in its brevity. Your fates are shrouded in mystery; your life burns bright with the passion of urgency and trial,"  Turgon leaned forward in his chair, his face earnest, "We who linger in the starlight of our dreams are prone to melancholy, Galdorion; prone to a terrible remorse," he sighed sadly, "The Second Children of Iluvatar are most wonderful to us, for they live but a small portion of their lives within the confines of this earth, departing swiftly to a realm beyond- whither we cannot follow. Indeed, I am certain the only cure for Elven grief is to either forget our woes entirely, or to live as men live and meet each day with the vigour of a human heart!"

Húrin and Húor knew not what to say at this. Turgon sighed and stood abruptly, shaking his head at his own folly.

"No doubt you had little desire to hear such oddities from a recently bereaved King,"  Turgon ushered the somewhat befuddled young men from his study with easy smiles and assurances, “You will stay in Gondolin and we will discuss many things, in time. But for now, the feast awaits. I will not have it said that the Lord of Gondolin knows not how to host his honoured guests!"

So the brothers bowed, uttered their farewells, then wandered a while through the darkling halls of Turgon's white palace. Paintings and sculptures and grand tapestries graced the walls of the rooms they roved, gilt all in the light of both fire and star. Soon, however, the sound of music reached them from a farther room, and they followed its echoing refrain towards the light of a mighty throng. The feast was begun.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading; comments are gladly accepted!
> 
> *long years numberless as the wings of trees! (from 'Namarië' - I guess I'm assuming it's a manner of saying for elves at this time!)
> 
> *Lórindol: "Golden-haired"; a term the elves used to describe Húrin and Húor’s grandfather Hador. I think it is rather affectionate!


End file.
